


Enough To Go By

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Canon, Drama, Future, No Slash, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-23
Updated: 2006-01-09
Packaged: 2018-12-27 11:19:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12080019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: Confrontations and evasions...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

  
Justin

**~*~**   
****_"We will lie under different stars;  
I am where I am, and you're where you are."_   
**~*~**   


He was in Cairo when the epiphany hit him like a freight train out of control. If he hadn't been sitting down at the time, it would likely have laid him low. He suddenly knew what was wrong and how to fix it, and though the knowledge was now probably years out of date, what choice did he have? He had to try.

He snapped the lid of his laptop shut and grabbed for his cell phone. Praying that Brian, a creature of habit, had kept the same phone number all these years, he had half of it punched into the keypad before he thought to look at his watch. 

_Fuck._ It was 4 a.m. in West Virginia. He pushed clear and dialed a fresh number. 

Justin listened to the voice on the other end and then asked in broken Arabic for the next flight to Benedum Airport.

**~*~**

He'd begun to sense it a year ago, possibly even earlier than that.

He was a renowned artist, living the life he'd dreamed of for as long as he could remember hoarding dreams, tucking them away like a fanciful wedding dowry. His creations were touted as the most innovative and thought-provoking work since the likes of Picasso, and were displayed in some of the most exclusive galleries around the globe. 

Building on his humble beginnings with the small computer Brian had bought him two decades ago, he'd moved further and further from the classical disciplines, rejecting the oils and the charcoal and pastel sketches that had reflected his youthful exuberance in favor of edgier, grittier subject matter.

His work was cutting edge, the trades and critics alike claimed, unique for his use of high tech mediums from polycarbonates, resins and liquid photopolymers, to front and rear projection screens, to CGI techniques he himself had designed and built. He'd changed the face of computer graphics single-handedly to such an extent that the Sun Corporation had used his name, for hefty royalties, in their newest high-end graphics software package. 

Technology held a fascination for him, it always had, and to be an innovator rather than a follower was a powerful drug all on its own. He was loved for what he did. Children would learn about him in their school books one day. A National Medal of Arts was probably in his future. 

Yet he seemed to be the only one who knew the truth- that it was all crap. His work now was cold to his eyes, lifeless. And why shouldn't it be? The balance had gone out of his life; regaining his footing might be impossible. He wasn't even sure anymore why he had left it all behind. Because of one gimp hand? Had he really been so cowardly, so terrified of the honesty others saw in his simple line drawings? 

He'd known real beauty, once, had held it in his hands, sketched it in the deep, silver-hued hours between dusk and dawn. He'd begun the long process of growing up between those silky blue sheets, watching Brian sleep and struggling to capture his essence in graphite. His talent had ached and vibrated inside him, stretching itself across their lives, speaking to him in voices he'd heard but had barely begun to understand.

He learned, in the intervening years, how to listen, but somewhere in his transition from unsure youth to national treasure, heâ€™d lost Brian.

  
**~*~**   
****_"I've not seen you in the flesh for so long  
That I'm not sure we would know each other at all."_   
**~*~**   


He glanced vaguely at the flight attendant who placed a fresh vodka tonic on the tray table in front of him, barely noticing the fetching smile she cast in his direction. At almost 39, his babyish good looks had matured into a taut masculine beauty, accented by his strong jaw, full lips and eyes that became more slate gray as every year passed. Slight creases were just beginning at the corners of his eyes and across his high forehead, but as one of his previous lovers had often reminded him, they were mere laugh lines, well-earned and proudly displayed.

He'd gone through a stage some years back when he'd grown his hair long and held it clasped at his neckline in a simple ponytail, but that period had been mercifully brief and now, as in his youth, he favored a shorter, more layered cut.

He gazed out the small first class portal to the dark night beyond, his handsome face reflecting back at him, and considered the last time he'd seen Brian, his family, and his friends.

Debbie's funeral, nearly 7 years ago, had been particularly hard on Brian, who was losing, as Michael had, the only mother he'd ever really known or loved. Joanie was long gone, drunk into an early grave, and he doubted Brian had much grief to shed for her. 

Justin had been gone more than ten years, and his presence was little comfort to Brian, though he did what he could to ease Michael's suffering. Ben was already ill by then, and Mike's plate was full to overflowing with grief.

Justin had stayed as long as he could, fetching groceries and meds, spending time with Hunter (who had grown into a remarkable young man, even to Justin's eyes) and reading to Ben when Michael was exhausted and needed a break. Brian remained noticeably absent during Justin's all too brief visit, and Justin didn't push him for more. 

He wasn't sure which of them was to blame for their mutual alienation, but he carried a weight of guilt on his shoulders that time and distance had never completely lifted. 

Exhausted but restless, he pulled a pencil from his carry-on bag and began sketching familiar dark eyes on a wrinkled cocktail napkin, the earth passing soundlessly beneath him.


	2. Enough To Go By

  
Brian

**~*~**   
****_"What I am,_  
And what you are-  
Some things just don't hold,   
like the way the night has trapped a star."   
**~*~**   


"Brian!"

He woke slowly, hearing his name and an insistent thumping in his head. Which poison had he chosen for the evening's analgesic? He couldn't remember, but as the fog began to clear, he became convinced that he hadn't chosen any. He could have sworn he hadn't even gone out at all, that he'd stayed home, reading. 

Fuck, that was right, wasn't it?

He wasn't the kid he'd once been, although sometimes, like now when he'd waken up confused and disoriented, he forgot that. For him, drugs and anonymous sex had mostly gone the way of the world's VCRs and shopping malls. _Mostly._ So no pharmaceuticals then, just another dream about a familiar voice.

He rolled to his back and rubbed his palm over his face, deciding that he'd probably be able to get to sleep again, tonight. Not every time that he'd had a dream about Justin could he so easily slip back into oblivion, and it had long ago become his habit to ghost through the many rooms of their intended home at all hours, listening to the settling silence.

"Brian!"

He sat up with a start, the sheets falling to a pool in his lap, and cocked his head, listening in the darkness. Pounding. On his door. Someone was pounding on his front door. And shouting his name. 

**"Brian!"**

It wasn't a dream, or his imagination, or a drug-induced phantasm. That _was_ Justin's voice, goddammit. 

_Justin._

He bolted out of bed, telling himself it was only to stop the asshole from making such a fucking racket, and not because he wanted, needed, or lived to see him again. He glanced at the glowing green numbers of his alarm clock on his way out of the bedroom, clumsily yanking on a pair of gray sweatpants as he ran. 

_3 am? Is that right? Something must be wrong._

His heart in his throat, feet barely touching the stair treads, he flew to the door but still felt slow, old. Would Justin really show up after all these years, pound on his door at 3 AM, and then leave before he could answer? Brian wasn't sure how persistent he was anymore, but he wasn't taking any fucking chances.

Reaching the front hallway and skidding across the gleaming hardwood floor, his mouth went dry when he heard Justin's fist connecting again to the huge oak door and Justin's voice, so different yet so much the same, calling his name. 

_Yes, still persistent. Thank fucking God._

The years pressed in on Brian suddenly, too many years and old hurts reminding him not to be a pushover. Not this time, dammit. He stopped short of pulling the door off its hinges, ran a hand through his still-thick hair, and squared his shoulders. He slammed several old protective walls firmly into place before grabbing the antique doorknob.

"Ok, ok, for Christ's sake, shut the fuck up, I have neighb-" 

He yanked the door open and there stood Justin, and Brian's words died on his tongue because Justin was smiling. God, he was _smiling_ and he was older, _(hell, who wasn't)_ , but he was still beautiful, still Justin, and he could still make Brian's heart seize.

"Brian!" It was a soft exhalation of air on his lips. Justin's smile grew even larger and Brian wondered crazily how that was even possible, but before he could speak again, Justin had flung himself at him and wrapped his arms around Brian's neck. 

"Brian, oh my god!"

Brian's battered and aged pride held out against the onslaught for all of 15 seconds. Then he was folding Justin into a tight embrace. He felt more than heard Justin's excited laughter rumble warmly against his chest, and it seemed as if his heart tripped in time to the sound. 

Justin's voice had deepened and his body was hard and defined. Every vestige of the teen boy Brian had know so long ago had been burned out of him by years of world travel. Brian knew instinctively that he would grieve for that part of Justin that he'd never experience again. But what else was new? There was always grieving for him when it came to Justin.

Brian tightened his clutch on him, feeling Justin respond in kind, and breathed him in. There was a scent about him that was exotic and unfamiliar, as if he'd just visited some Moroccan spice market moments before appearing, like magic, on Brian's front stoop.

"Christ," he muttered into Justin's neck, "what the fuck are you doing here? Don't you know what time it is?"

Justin's laughter rumbled out of him again and he pulled back just enough to look up at Brian.

"I do." His smile took up residence in his eyes, his voice, the crinkle of his nose, and Brian was just as affected by it as he had been the first time it had been turned on him. What a fucking weapon Justin had at his disposal. He hoped he'd learned over the years how to use it to his full advantage, and considering the abruptly uncertain condition of Brian's nervous system, he suspected that Justin _had._

"But I needed to see you," Justin continued. "I've been on planes for nearly 24 hours straight, now, just to reach you."

Brian swallowed around the mass gathering in his throat.

"Missed my cock that much, did you, Sunshine?" When in doubt, revert to sarcasm and humor.

Justin's laughter echoed into the front yard and like the sentimental lesbian Brian had suddenly turned into, he felt a dull pang for the days, months and years this property had been deprived of the sound of Justin's happiness.

"Something like that," Justin's eyes were gleaming. "You haven't changed at bit, have you?

Brian shrugged noncommittally, knowing a different truth, and dropped his arms from around Justin's shoulders. He motioned Justin into the house and closed the door behind them with a heavy thunk.

  
Justin   
**~*~  
 _"I turned back to breath, and I learned a few good reasons to cry,  
And I finally called home, praying you weren't out of range."_  
~*~**   


The shakes didn't start in Justin until the shock of seeing Brian began to wear off. Brain had stepped away from him deliberately and for a moment, his resolve faltered. Justin could tell that Brain was happy to see him, that was undeniable, but so many years had passed with no word, no letters or calls, no acknowledgement of their past and what they'd meant to each other, and Justin was no fool. Love _could_ die. It could be killed and buried and forgotten, and if anyone in the world was capable of such a feat, it was the man standing before him, now.

For the moment, though, Justin chose to ignore the wariness in Brian's eyes and focus, instead, on the involuntary smile he still wore. Full, red lips, that quirky misplaced front tooth that had never been corrected, a soft cross between a smirk and a grin... it was all Brian and Justin was tempted to lean in and kiss him. He thought that Brian might even allow it, if only for a moment, but the rash impulsiveness of his younger days had been tempered by half a lifes' experience. He refrained, and instead stood still, looking around at the house he hadn't seen for- what- twelve years?

His eye fell, naturally, to the large, darkened study to the right of the entryway. That was where Brian had proposed to him and then, several years later, where he'd done it again. Justin had agreed the first time, in his eagerness to belong to Brian. Brian had smiled, kissed him for what seemed like hours, laid him out in front of the fire and made love to him until they'd both been spent, sated, and drowned in more love than Justin had ever felt since. 

He'd stupidly said no the second time, and looking now at the fireplace, empty and lifeless, his stomach did a sickening roll that left him dizzy, weak. 

"Could I get a glass of water?" he asked Brian in a faint voice. "I'm really tired, and not feeling so-"

"Come in." Brian turned his back abruptly and made his way towards the kitchen, flipping on lights as he went. 

Justin took in the tasteful, ornate antique furnishings, accessories and artwork arranged in each perfectly designed room with curiosity. This was nothing like what he would have expected from Brian Kinney, the man who had valued, above all else, a clean, simple aesthetic that often felt spare and even cold. Rich colors and textures adorned these rooms, creating an atmosphere that was almost museum-like. 

It suddenly occurred to him that this dï¿½cor might not be Brian's doing, alone; that someone else could well be living here with him, someone whose tastes ran to expensive artifacts of the past. 

His knees went weak at the thought, and he stumbled. Brian, walking a pace ahead of him but as perceptive as always, turned and placed a steadying hand under Justin's elbow, propping him up and leading him to a simple, high-backed kitchen chair.

Brain moved to the sink, grace and tension warring in his muscles as Justin watched, fascinated. He pulled a glass out of a cabinet, filled it with water from the tap and brought it back to Justin, setting it on the table in front of him.

Just smiled gratefully and, with an encouraging nod from Brian, drained it, his eyes locked on Brian's over the rim.


	3. Enough To Go By

  
**~*~**   
**_"Baby, baby, baby, tell me, have you ever been exposed like this?"_ **   
**~*~**   


Brian watched as Justin gulped the water, far more riveted than he knew he should have been by the sight of Justin's neck as it stretched, his Adam's apple bobbing with each swallow, his small, calloused hand gripping the glass. Like a sensory snapshot in his head, he suddenly remembered what it tasted like to drag his tongue up that razor-burned skin to the tender flesh just below the hinge of Justin's jaw, the spot that, when lapped slowly, would make goosebumps break out all over Justin's body. His dick began to stir in response.

 _Fuck,_ he thought to himself, _get a grip, Kinney._

Chastising himself for falling into old patterns years after he'd forced himself to unlearn them, he sat watching curiously as Justin took in the kitchen. He wondered idly what was going through Justin's mind as he studied the rustic farmhouse quality of the table, chairs and butcher block island. 

When Justin's eyes finally settled on Brian's face again, Brian broke the quiet between them.

"Why are you here, Justin?" 

Despite surely having known that the question would be asked again, Justin seemed at a complete loss for how to answer it. His mouth opened and closed and opened once more, and his eyes darted from Brian's face, to the table, and then to the ceiling, before finally coming to rest somewhere around Brian's lips. Brain waited patiently through Justin's familiar display of indecision but was only rewarded with a helpless shrug and vague hand gestures.

"Justin-"

"Brian," Justin swiped a hand over his eyes, "I'm sorry. I'm exhausted. I know that's a shitty excuse for waking you up in the middle of the night seemingly without reason, but I'm jet-lagged and a little overwhelmed, and I'm not sure I know how to answer that question, yet."

He gave Brian a tired smile that Brian knew he hoped would let him off the hook.

Disconcerted but determined not to show it, Brian sat back in his chair and crossed his legs, resting one long, elegant hand on his thigh. He studied Justin silently, taking note of how well Justin had aged. His skin was still pale and delicate, crinkling only the slightest bit at the corners of his eyes when he smiled, and his lips maintained that beautiful pink tinge he'd had as a boy. Brian considered being jealous of the ease with which Justin seemed to be approaching 40, but discarded the notion. His own temples might be streaked with gray and he now needed contact lenses to correct his vision, but he was still no slouch in the looks department, and he knew it.

As if reading Brian's mind, which Brian couldn't be altogether sure he wasn't still capable of, Justin smiled brightly, turning up the wattage until Brian was unable to resist. His lips quirked in a grin, which Justin didn't miss, as they regarded each other over the old oaken table.

"You're as beautiful as you ever were," Justin confided softly.

Brian smiled quietly in acknowledgement. Bringing himself to tell Justin just how breathtaking he found him was an impossibility, so he didn't even try. Justin could probably see it written all over him, anyway.

"And the house looks..." Justin glanced around again, "really different. The last time I was here, you were still enamored of Italian high design."

"You haven't been home in a very long time, Justin," Brian pointed out, making sure to punctuate his use of the word "home". He took no special pleasure, though, as he once might have done, in the mild blush of shame that spread across Justin's cheeks. 

"Still," Justin pressed, "all these antiques, Brian..."

Brain raised his eyebrows in a question.

"Well, they're just not..." He stumbled in the face of Brain's faintly disdainful scrutiny. "I don't know, they just don't seem like _you_ , do they?"

Brian bit back the impulse to remind Justin that he really couldn't possibly have any idea _what_ might seem like him, considering the amount of time that had passed since their last communication. He could sense that Justin was fishing for something, but despite the late hour and Justin's bizarre behavior, he didn't want strife between them. He knew that Justin would probably be on a plane to god-knows-where in just a few hours, that he very likely even had a ticket in his pocket right now, and whether it was a remembrance of past affections, or an old sense of obligation, he had a weird desire to enjoy these few moments afforded them.

He shrugged slightly, sidestepping the issue altogether, and smiled.

"They're a sound investment." 

Justin's gaze sharpened but he nodded, apparently content to let the subject drop.

"And how's Kinnetik?"

"I sold it and retired five years ago." Brian smiled proudly. "I'm now a man of leisure." 

The sale to a New York firm had been the smartest financial move he'd ever made, and the wealth it provided him with would be enough to live a substantial life on until he died, while still leaving a sizeable chunk for Gus to inherit.

Justin was clearly boggled by the news and blinked several times before answering.

"Fuck," he laughed, "I can't believe it, I never thought you'd give up working, Brian! It always seemed to keep you so young and vibrant."

"I'm _not_ young anymore, Sunshine, I turned 50 this year."

"I know," Justin's voice held mischief. "I'm sorry I missed such a milestone, old man. Still, why didn't anyone tell me you'd sold the business?"

Brian shrugged again. They both knew the answer- Justin's mother and sister had long ago moved out of state with their respective husbands, and with them gone, Justin had lost almost all contact with any of their adopted family on Liberty Avenue. The most significant communication he'd had with anyone in years was the annual Christmas card he sent to Mikey.

"So tell me," Justin asked, "what do you do with yourself, these days?" 

"Well, you've seen the antiques. I actually spend a lot of time finding them."

"What? Brian Kinney, _antiquing_?" Justin snorted laughter. "That's hard to imagine."

"A lot has changed since you left," Brian countered.

"I know, but my god, Brian-"

"Justin," Brian sighed tiredly, losing patience, "I _like_ them. That's all you really need to know, isn't it?"

"Yeah, no, hey," Justin became flustered. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean anythi-"

Brian stood abruptly, surprising Justin.

The rush of excitement he felt in seeing Justin, holding him close again, began to subside as the late hour reasserted itself on his brain. He fought it, but it _was_ three o'clock in the goddamned morning. There'd been a time when he would have considered this the shank of the evening, but he was, as he'd reminded Justin, fifty years old now, and these days, 3 a.m. adventures felt like shit over 8 a.m. coffee.

"It's really late, Justin. Where are you staying?"

"Oh!" Now Justin blushed for real, the color spreading furiously from his forehead to his neck within seconds. It made him even more fetching. "Staying! Where am I staying! Yes! Of course! I'm here so I'll need to stay someplace, you're right!"

Brian looked down at him and felt a sudden, keen longing to lean over and kiss Justin to stem the stream of nonsense that was pouring from his mouth. He ignored the impulse and pursed his lips, instead, his eyebrows raised.

"You don't _have_ a place to stay, do you?"

"Yes. No. I mean, I don't. But I can. I'm sorry, I'll go, it's so late and-"

"I have room for you; stay here for the night."

This silenced Justin faster than any kiss could have. Brian could tell by Justin's stunned expression that he had never expected to be invited. Justin tried to shake his head and nod at the same time, causing Brian to smirk with amusement.

"I don't want to impose. Really, I'm fine-"

"You're not imposing, for fuck's sake, just stay the night. You can find a hotel tomorrow... if you're even going to be here for that long."

Brian hated the way that had come out as a needy question rather than a bland and indifferent offer, but he schooled his face into a mask of boredom to hide the fact that he was holding his breath as he waited for Justin's answer.

"Yeah, umm... " Justin rose, standing near enough to Brian that he could have tucked himself into the taller man, as he'd once done when, if he'd wanted to. 

Brian stepped back. 

"Yeah, that would be great, I'd like to stay... you know, for the night. And... well, I don't know how long I'll be in town. I guess that just depends on-"

He faltered.

"Umm, on how much work I have to do when I get back." The winning smile was back, but Brian sensed a note of evasion under it. He was too tired to deal with that tonight, though, and if he was honest with himself, too relieved that Justin wasn't planning on leaving again in the morning. 

He let it slide.

  
**~*~**   
**_"Baby, baby, baby, tell me, have you ever been afraid like this?"_ **   
**~*~**   


Having a country home with stables, a pool, and a tennis court meant that Brian saw more visitors living here than he ever had in his city loft, so it had become habit to have the small day staff he employed to keep all the guest rooms ready for unexpected overnighters.

He installed Justin in a comfortable suite with a private bathroom that was situated in a wing of the sprawling house far from his own bedroom, provided him with extra blankets and instructions to come fetch him if he needed anything, and made his retreat back to his own bed.

His heart was hammering in his chest by the time he slid between the cool, expensive sheets, his mind racing. Why was Justin here? What did he want from Brian after all these years? He knew it couldn't be money- even if Justin had been bankrupt and begging in the streets for money, which Brian knew for a face he wasn't, his pride would never allow him to come looking for help. 

He'd seemed so happy to see Brian, and Brian couldn't deny how his blood had raced having Justin so near again. But would he travel from whatever corner of the world he'd been keeping to, just to say hello? Not a chance. There was something else. Something that had set Justin on fire and had impelled him to Brian's doorstep.

Brian's head ached and his stomach coiled in anxiousness at the possibilities. How would he ever get to sleep, now? 

He lay on his back in the dark, regulating his breathing and trying to clear his mind, but Zen shit wasn't what he needed right now.

He rolled to his side, checked the clock and picked up his cell phone. He held it for a long time, considering. Fuck it, he needed to call.

As the phone rang on the other end, he sifted through what he would say, how he would explain. He was no closer to an answer when the call was answered by a man's baritone voice made rough with sleep.

"I'm sorry," Brian announced, "I know you must have been sleeping. I just... I wanted to... I had..." He sighed heavily.

"You missed me." It wasn't a question.

"Yeah, I did." Brian admitted. "Do you mind me calling?"

"Of course not." The voice on the other end was warm, intimate, and Brian couldn't deny the relief he felt, hearing it. "What's wrong?"

Brian laughed softly and shifted to his back again.

"Why should something be wrong? Maybe I just wanted to hear your voice." 

"You're so full of shit, you've never called just to hear my voice in your life. Come on, babe, spill."

"Don't call me that," Brian groused with affection.

"Fine, I won't call you that."

Brain let the comfortable silence fill his ear, lulled by the simple familiarity of it it. His heart rate was finally returning to normal.

"Brian, it's, what? Almost four? Either tell me what's wrong, or left me go back to sleep and I'll call you in the morning, ok?"

"Nothing's wrong... nothing, that is," Brian let his voice drop, "that couldn't be fixed with a little messy phone sex."

The was a low sexy laugh on the line that went straight to Brian's dick.

"Asshole."

"Yeah," Brian breathed, letting his hand wander between his legs. "I was thinking about yours, actually."

"And this is news to me?" The man laughed again and Brian recognized the growing arousal in it. He knew it wouldn't take him long to get off, listening to that voice. 

When he finally did come, minutes later, panting into the phone and cussing softly, he pretended it wasn't Justin's face that filled his mind.


	4. Enough To Go By

  
Justin

**~*~**   
****_"I've been traveling so long;_  
How am I ever going to know my home  
When I see it again?"   
**~*~**   


He wondered if there'd ever be a time in his life when Brian would be incapable of reducing him to a babbling mass of teenaged boy simply by sitting near him? He'd had so much to say, had rehearsed it meticulously from one flight to the next as cities slipped past and the miles between them dwindled, and then when Brian opened the door, his words had become stones in his mouth. The relief of seeing him, and Brian's unconscious beauty, standing there in sweats, naked from the waist up, his hair in disarray, his face soft with sleep but eyes sharp on Justin, short-circuited Justin's carefully prepared speech.

All he'd wanted, suddenly, was to envelop Brian, smell his skin, be crushed into his familiar embrace. But really, what he'd wanted more than anything else was to feel as they had before he'd abandoned this life for one he'd thought would be better, more satisfying.

They'd both made the decision, the first time he'd left, but the second time he'd walked away from Brian, he'd been so enamored of New York and the small bit of the world his art had allowed him to see, that he'd been blinded. 

He'd always thought of himself as a simple man, needing only simple pleasures, and then he'd gotten swept away by fame and adulation, and here was the result. He had money, and even some small share of power. But what good was it when the only man he'd ever loved was half a world away, and more inaccessible than he'd ever been even when he was in the same room.

He couldn't remember, anymore, why he hadn't asked, even _told,_ Brian to join him. 

Everything had happened so quickly, tonight. Not even an hour had gone by before Brian had bundled him off to his room. Passing the study, what appeared to be a music room (when had Brian taken up music?) and numerous other lushly appointed suites, Justin had become more and more mystified by what he saw. Dark colors, rich fabrics replete with classic patterns and expensive, imported threads, over-stuffed furnishings and heavy tapestries- but none of it said 'Brain' to him. 

Brian had dodged his questions and Justin became more and more convinced that there was a man in Brian's life, one whose influence he could feel virtually seeping out of the walls. And nothing of Justin remained here. It was as if he hadn't had any impact at all. 

Thinking this, feeling morose and defeated, he slouched into the bathroom, setting his toiletries kit on the vanity. A flash of bright color, so out of place amongst the muted tones of the house, caught his eye, and turning, his breath hitched sharply. One entire wall of the large bathroom was taken up with a huge canvas Justin had finished only three years before. He'd been in Tanzania when word had come from his agent that a buyer had purchased the work from a gallery in Vienna for three times the asking price.

Exhaustion, excitement, and something weirdly like gratitude undid him. He slumped to the edge of the huge bathtub, his eyes never leaving the painting, shaking his head in denial and confusion.

The vibrant reds and yellows screeched at him, almost hurting his eyes in this setting, and he covered his face with his hands, hiding from the view. Scrubbing his fingers through his hair, his mind spinning, he wondered about the painting. Why was it here? Did it mean anything? The rest of the bathroom screamed French provincial. The abstract representation of one of the magnificent Vienna sunsets Justin had scrambled to capture that evening three years ago was inappropriate in this room. In fact, it would have been inappropriate in any of the rooms Justin had seen so far.

Questions buzzed in his head. Was the placement of that painting, in a room so far away from Brian, significant? He had no doubt that Brian had housed him there knowing the painting would be discovered. Was he trying to tell Justin something? Maybe that he'd always known Justin would come home? That he'd love him, but at a distance?

Brian had forever kept him off-balance. He both missed and dreaded that aspect of him. It had forced him to think, to move, to work for the right answers to the complicated relationship they'd shared, but it was chaotic, too, taxing. And when Justin had finally come home, seeking the very balance he knew was missing from his life, the balance that only Brian had ever been able to provide, he was thrown once more for a nauseous loop-de-loop ride of uncertainty and perplexity. 

_Enough,_ he told himself, standing suddenly. _You're **not** a scared 17 year old, anymore. Grow some balls and get some fucking answers!_

He strode through the bathroom and out the bedroom door, making for Brian's master suite at the other end of the house.

Passing room after room, all with their doors flung wide open and revealing little more than their dark interiors, he had taken three purposeful strides past the only room he'd seen so far with a closed door. He stopped in his tracks, not quite believing. Turning to look over his shoulder and knowing he had no right to pry, he ached. That had been his studio, the one room in the house with windows on two sides and a skylight that bathed the floor with a golden hue each afternoon.

He stood for a full minute and then two, his hand hovering over the doorknob. Finally, grasping it, he swung it open and felt for the switch plate on the wall to his right, bathing the room in the bright iridescent glow of lamp light.

Hanging on the stark white walls and leaning propped against them were dozens of his paintings, years worth of work. Most of them were more than a decade old. He'd moved further and further away from canvases over the years, until picking up an actual paint brush was a real event for him. He thought it was even possible that the work hanging in the bathroom he'd just left might have been the last time he'd touched a canvas.

He passed into the room like a manor ghost that sifts through the night, searching for the meaning of its death. His mouth hung unhinged, tears streaming down his face, as he gazed around. There hung Brian, asleep under the blue lights. In the corner stood an almost Piccaso-esque of Melanie in repose. Liberty Avenue at night. The New York skyline from the window of his first shitty apartment there. The rumpled form of an old man he'd found sleeping in the park. More abstracts here, and here, and over there.

His lungs worked to find air that suddenly seemed very rare and when the voice spoke from behind him, he almost screamed.

  
Brian

**~*~  
 _"Love runs out,  
So I kept it up on a shelf..."_  
~*~**   


"You found them," Brian observed quietly.

He rarely came into this room, still unable to think of it in any other way except as "Justin's studio". Looking around at his sizeable private collection of Justin Taylor originals, even he was surprised by their number. He'd begun collecting Justin's work surreptitiously, often paying more than its market value to keep the gallery owners silent about his identity. Never more than a couple a year, not enough to raise Justin's suspicions. He'd stored them away, at first, in a climate controlled unit in the city near Kinnetik, but once Justin had left for good, he'd brought them to the house and hung them. When he ran out of wall space, he'd begun stacking them along the floor. 

All but his favorite. The one that contained so much of Justin's soul that looking at it made his stomach ache and his head throb. That was the one he had to keep as far away from himself as possible, stashing it in the least likely of places- a bathroom in an unused guest room.

Obviously, he'd known when he put Justin in that particular room that he'd discover it. And yeah, when it came right down to it, Brian realized he'd wanted to be found out, wanted Justin to know that while he might have been able to leave Pittsburgh behind, his influence was a gravitational force that Brian hadn't ever completely been able to escape. 

Keeping these works of Justin's humiliated him. It was pathetic, really, and he knew it. But this was his best revenge. And tribute.

Justin turned to him, eyes blue and staring, gaping at him. Brian felt a little thrill that he was still able to shock him so thoroughly.

"You almost never paint anymore, Justin. Why?"

There it was, a widening of his eyes as he registered another tidbit- that Brian had been paying attention to his career all this time. 

"You bought these? You _bought_ all of these?" 

_'You bought this? You bought this palace?'_

_'For my prince..._

Brian closed his eyes and felt a clutch at his chest. It was unlikely that Justin would even realize how'd he'd just peeled away the years with those two simple questions. He took a deep breath, pushed it out, and met Justin's stunned gaze once more. He nodded, uncertain of his voice, and added a small shrug.

"You're a good investm-"

Justin was on him, his fingers digging painfully into the back of Brian's neck, his mouth, hot and aggressive, clamped to Brian's. For a moment, two, three, Brian stood like a statue, his tired and overwhelmed mind unable to process the way Justin scrabbled to get closer to him, to crawl into his skin. Then he fell into the kiss as if falling into a crevasse, understanding instinctively that danger lay everywhere, waiting to ensnare him.


	5. Enough To Go By

  
Brian

**~*~**   
**_"Baby, don't you break my heart slow."_ **   
**~*~**   


You dragged him into your bedroom, not even bothering to turn on the light. You knew his body, even now, in the dark. You shoved him to the bed, ripped at his clothes until they lay strewn across the room, and ordered him to his hands and knees. You didn't trust either of you not to come instantly, so you eschewed prepping him, sheathed yourself quickly and spoke his name only once before you entered him.

Pushing into him for the first time in minuteshoursdayweeksmonthsfucking _years_ was sweet and dangerous and you didn't think too much about it. You took him hard, from behind, because it was easier to lie to yourself that it was casual, nothing but a good fuck, meaningless, if you couldn't see his eyes. And you didn't think about the promises you'd made to yourself about him, and you didn't think about the minute rushing towards you when he'd turn away and leave you here again, and you didn't think about your lover, sleeping in his own bed right now, trusting you to not be stupid. 

You didn't think, you just pushed, pushed, _pushed_ and fuck if it didn't melt the years off your shoulders and thaw parts of you that had been locked in permafrost for so long that it had become habit to feel the numbing cold when you were alone and the night got too long. You felt young, vital, and you couldn't remember the last time you'd felt that. Only you could. You could pinpoint the memory, the very last _minute_ when you'd felt this young, this invincible, and you refused to give a fuck that it was when you were standing next to him in the yard before he'd left for the last time, watching with him as a flock of birds swooped and spun gold in the air over the back field, the stables, your home.

You tasted his neck, his pale, honeyed neck, and oh fuck, yeah, that was good too, and before you knew what you were doing, you had pulled him up against you, so close that you could feel the muscles and tendons in his back straining and pushing against your chest. You _held_ him, your arms locked around his shoulders, and you felt it when he gave in, slumped into your strength like he used to when he knew he could always depend on it to catch him and hold him up.

Your knees, stressed by age but cushioned by the mattress beneath you, twinged, reminding you that they would ache later, but it didn't slow you down, didn't make you stretch him out across the sheets, because you could encase him this way, wrap yourself around him, and while you knew possessing him was brief, a temporary aberration, you clung to his nearness. 

You breathed him in, his essence scorching your lungs like fire, your dick slipping deeper and deeper with each thrust, and when he squeezed his ass down on you, clamping on to you as hard as you were holding on to him, your eyes rolled back in your head and your mouth dropped to his shoulder to bite and lick.

Deft hands swiping his flesh, brushing away sweat and causing him shivers and goosebumps, remembered everywhere he liked to be touched, every stroke and pinch and pat that would make him sigh, make him moan uncontrollably, make him love you more and more every second. You let him shudder against you, let his trembling sink into your brain like an infection, making you dizzy, as your mouth reclaimed the tenderness at the back of his neck, along his jaw, in the hairline just above his ear.

You knew his name would be the next thing, that soon you'd be calling it softly, against your will, but your orgasm was building and what did it matter now if he knew how much you needed him? It wouldn't change anything, it couldn't, and thinking about that would only fuck this all to hell for you. For him. So when your body reached the point where it couldn't let you remain silent another moment, you whispered his name into his ear, and then you muttered it and then you cried it, and you heard every answer he gave back, your own name choked out in that high, breathy voice that meant he was close, so close.

And that was when you stopped.

You'll never remember later how you did it, held yourself and him on the brink the way you did, and you know now that it doesn't matter, but at the time, as your bodies were reaching a critical peak, your heart reached a crisis point.

"Where have you been?" you gasped out. Your hand found his chin, turned his head so you could see him. His hair hung limply in his face, his eyes were glazed, mouth open and panting, cheeks flushed. Here was the Justin you remembered- raw, untamed, carnal. You almost broke, then, needing to devour his lips, but you wouldn't relent.

You saw the confusion in his eyes, his frustration, watched needy appeals forming in the back of his throat. Justin never did like to wait for his pleasure, always aggressively seeking it out, bending both you and his tricks alike to his desires until he was sated. It was a point of pride for you; you had unleashed his appetite, honed it, fed it and taught him how to satisfy it.

"Wha-?" He stretched to reach your lips, silence you with kisses, and though you pulled away to keep him from connecting with your mouth, your hand skated down his slick chest, traced the ridges of muscle, tickled along his ribcage.

"I was umm..." his nose scrunched and his eyes closed as he tried to find the answer. "I was in Cairo, working on this stupid project to... fuck... light the pyramids with lasers, and-"

He leaned back into you again, seeking your lips, but again you jerked out of his reach, your eyes burning into his, searching for answers you weren't sure you were ready to hear. Your hand found his cock, so rigid and smooth, and almost on their own, your fingers began stroking slowly up and down his length. His eyes fluttered shut, his mouth dropping open once again, and when he moaned, you nearly abandoned your need to know.

You shook him slightly to make him look at you again, your fist gripping his dick hard.

"Where have you _been_ , Justin?"

His eyes opened and fixed on yours once again, and this time, he _saw_. He looked into you with that uncanny perception he'd always possessed when it came to you, and he understood.

"I'm here, now, Brian. I'm right here with you, and I want to _be_ here. Can't that be enough for tonight?"

You considered his words, mesmerized by the tiny beads of sweat sliding down his still-smooth forehead, by the open, guileless expression that had always been his most deadly gift, and decided suddenly that yes, it was enough. For tonight, it was enough.

Bending, you sucked his beautiful pink lips into your mouth, pushed your tongue to meet his. Your hand on his cock sped up and found a purposeful rhythm. Seconds later he was convulsing in your powerful grasp, spilling semen all over your fist, your name squeezed out of his lungs on his labored, hitching breath.

You buried your nose in his damp hair, shut your eyes against the colors exploding inside your head, and came and came and came.


	6. Enough To Go By

  
Brian

**~*~**   
****_"I've walked these streets, a virtual stage it seemed to me;  
Make up on their faces, actors took their places next to me."_   
**~*~**   


I woke with an ache that seemed to penetrate every muscle and joint in my body. Laying still while I surveyed the damage, taking note of the knots and kinks that would have to be worked out by the 300.00 an hour Swedish massage I was going to need, I wondered who I paid and how much it would cost to take away the anguish of laying next to my own personal blond demon.

I turned my head in his direction, noting with relief that at least one muscle worked without complaint, and watched his face as he dreamed. The faint creases in his forehead and around the corners of his mouth that had been less evident last night in the dark were more prominent in the late morning sun slanting across the bed, and some small part of me cheered to see them. He _wasn't_ eternally young. One day, his hair would gray and lines would run deeply through his porcelain skin and his blue eyes would dim, and I suddenly felt more gratitude for it than was rational.

Could I really still be this wounded by him after all this time? What an old fucking drama queen I had grown into.

I sighed and closed my eyes, beginning a slow stretch with the arches of my feet and moving upwards. By the time I stretched out my shoulders, raising my arms high over my head and wiggling my back in relief, I had stopped caring if he'd wake up, and I released a mighty yawn that made my face tingle with rushing blood.

Justin was just beginning to stir, mumbling his way out of sleep, when the cell on my nightstand rang loudly. I watched with amusement as he jerked awake with a grunt of surprise, his eyes snapping open. Not bothering to suppress a chuckle, I snatched up the phone and rolled out of bed as if it was no effort for me to do so. In the privacy of my own head, I could probably admit to myself that all the hours in the world spent with my personal trainer might not be enough to prepare me for a marathon fuck in the middle of the night with my old flame, but there was no way I'd let on to Justin that it had been anything more than routine.

I nudged the phone open, knowing without even checking caller I.D. that it was Cole. I glanced at the clock on my way out the door, not bothering to cover my nakedness from Justin, whom I knew had to be watching me from under the covers. Fuck it. Let him see what 8 hours of cardio training, and 2 afternoons of hard-core racquetball a week did for me. 

I had to hand it to Cole, though. He'd let me sleep in- the clock read almost noon.

"I'm fine," I started softly before he could even say hello. I closed the door behind me and stepped into the hallway. Mindful of the housekeeping staff that could wander by at any moment, I slipped into a spare bedroom and shut the door, settling myself into a thickly upholstered wing-back chair. "I'm sorry I called in the middle of the night, it was an asshole thing to do. You can take it out on me on the court later, ok?"

His deep laugh covered the relief in his voice, and I pretended not to notice that he'd been worried. It's what he would expect.

"At least you made it up to me," Cole reminded me. "You were hot last night; maybe you should call me at 4 am more often." 

The playfulness in his voice caused a rare emotion to well up in me. I felt guilty that it had been Justin's face I'd seen when I'd been on the phone last night with Cole, Justin's mouth I wanted, Justin's smooth skin I'd imagined beneath my fingertips.

"Are we still on for today?" I asked, pinching off the headache that wanted to start between my eyes. 

"Four o'clock," he confirmed, "be ready to have your ass whipped."

"Yeah, whatever," I chuckled. 

The was a long pause and I knew he was formulating questions. Finally he broke the silence.

"Are you gonna tell me what this morning was all about?"

"Yes," I promised, suddenly pining for the days in years past when I would have blown off anyone who tried to get real answers out of me. "I will. We'll talk, ok?"

The tension was back in his tone when he agreed.

"I'll see you in a few hours." He didn't answer. "Cole? Don't worry, everything's fine. Alright?"

"Ok, Brian." His voice was soft, resigned. 

He knew I was lying.

  
Justin

**~*~**   
**_"Let me finish watching you change, like a sunset."_ **   
**~*~**   


I didn't want to think about the obvious affection I'd heard in Brian's voice as he'd stepped out of the room and spoken softly into the phone. An interloper, now, I was convinced that there was someone else, maybe even someone Brian loved, and inexplicably, I burned with jealousy.

The Brian I'd known had loved anonymous sex. Lots of it. Familiarity with his sex partners made him itchy, uncomfortable, and in all the time I'd known him intimately, I had been the only one he had ever become romantically attached to. Even that had taken years for us both to come to terms with. But I was more aware now than I had ever been of how people can change, and the evidence of Brian's transformations were everywhere I looked. 

If I loved Brian, it meant I wanted him to be happy. And if there was someone else in his life who could accomplish that, if it meant that Brian had not been alone all these years, that was a good thing. Or, it should have been. But I hadn't even fully opened my eyes yet and my stomach was already twisted into knots.

I was all grown up now, no longer a wide-eyed teenager tumbling into love after one spectacular fuck. I knew better than anyone that a single night in bed with Brian Kinney did not make us partners. But the way Brian had held me, said my name, and my paintings stashed away in my old studio, his eyes, following my every movement- could all of that really have been an illusion I was projecting onto him? Was I falling into the same terrible patterns of my youth?

I flipped over onto my back, rubbing the sleep out of my face. I could only hear the deep murmur of his voice coming through the wall, but his tone was familiar- it was the sound of tenderness. Who could evoke such a vulnerable emotion from the implacable man I'd known? 

I lay frozen, my mind whirling, and when I saw the door swing inwards again, signaling Brian's return, I shut my eyes, feigning sleep. 

I listened, my heart and head in turmoil, as Brain moved carefully into the room. A long, quiet pause told me that he had stilled and my skin prickled with the sensation of being watched. I kept my breathing even and deep, and my body still, hoping that he would believe I had fallen back to sleep. Finally, he shifted and moved into the adjacent bathroom, shutting the door softly behind him.

The breath I'd been holding eased shakily out of my lungs. 

I knew I was being childish. I'd been out of Brian's life for far too many years to believe I had any place in it, now, but I hadn't realized just how much I'd counted on Brian being alone and possibly even pining away for me, in this big, old house he'd bought for me. Finding Brian's secret cache of my paintings had nearly convinced me of a victory over the time and distance that had spread out between us. 

Why had I assumed that coming back to the states would be like visiting my past with a time machine? That everything here would be locked away in a little cage of unchanging permanence until I arrived with the key to unlock it? Had I lived so vehemently in the future that I was no longer in step with the real world? 

Apparently so. I had wanted to find Brian much as I had left him- still living hard by his own uncompromising rules, clubbing, barking orders at Cynthia every morning over his third cup of coffee in the offices of Kinnetik, insulting Teddy, forgiving every goofy thing Mikey did and said, and ignoring Emmett's breathless account of last nights' escapades. And still hopelessly in love with the world-renowned hometown-boy-made-good, Justin Taylor.

I groaned softly, embarrassed by my own foolishness, and rolled to my side, yanking Brian's pillow over my head and burrowing down into it.

  
Brian

**~*~**   
****_"Remember how you use to say I'd be the one to run away?  
But I'm still here."_   
**~*~**   


I let the water pound down on my sore muscles, feeling the familiar old burn that fucking Justin always entailed. No one had ever put me through my paces the way he had. Or maybe I'd just never put as much effort into anyone else. Except, perhaps, Cole. His sex drive rivaled mine, a real bonus if someone wanted to be invited back to into my bed more than once, but even with him, I didn't ever remember aching so badly.

Sometimes people floated in and out of your life, but Cole had landed in the middle of mine with both feet firmly planted. I'd been making the usual rounds at Babylon, checking in with the bartenders, bouncers and back office staff, and was about to leave it in the hands of my employees and go home for the night when I noticed him.

He was leaning against the upstairs railing, gazing down into the usual crowd of mostly naked men covered in glitter. I could see the boredom in his face from across the darkened and crowded club. It radiated from his eyes, the set of his jaw, his posture. It wasn't an affectation designed to attract twinks, either; he genuinely could have cared less that he was surrounded by available bodies, not a few of whom were cruising him hard. 

At the time, I saw in him a challenge- could I engage him, bring his focus to bear on me? The club life had already begun to wane, for me. There would always be an abundance of available holes and mouths and fingers, all attached to pretty men with hopeful eyes, but they bored the fuck out of me. The only ones worth having anymore were the ones I had to work for. As I wound my way towards him, climbing the catwalk and sliding onto the rail next to him, the predator in me paced its cage restlessly.

On closer inspection, he was even more beautiful than he'd appeared from below, his dark, intelligent eyes scanning the crowd below, powerful shoulders squared, long, graceful fingers carelessly clasping a beer can.

I slouched next to him, and peered out into the crowd below. If he noticed my presence, he ignored me, a state I wouldn't tolerate for long. Leaning close, I let my hand slide along the railing until it was settled in front of him. This was the part of the seduction I was particularly expert at; I could insinuate myself into someone else's space and have them humming in appreciation before they've ever registered discomfort at the nearness of a stranger. 

Cole barely budged. He looked down at my hand, resting so lightly just millimeters away from his clothed cock, and then looked up into my face, a small, amused smile on his lips and in his eyes. No push-over, this one, and my internal temperature rose a notch.

"See anything interesting?" I matched his smile, watching with quiet delight as his took on a mischievous tilt.

He shrugged noncommittally, but his eyes never left mine for an instant. There was interest there that would take some finessing to bring out, but I knew I was the man to do it. No fireworks, no bolts of lightning from the sky, but I wanted him and he wanted me and it was _different._

It took me two solid weeks of dinners that more closely resembled hetero dating, enough of them to shake my confidence somewhat, and one 4-hour Brando movie marathon at my place before he'd let me anywhere near his ass. It was all worth it. And somehow I knew I'd be seeing him again, that I'd want to. 

He was brilliant, solid, gorgeous, successful- and he put up with all my shit with hardly a glance. He fought back when he needed to and ignored me when that was more appropriate. I respected him, and it made what had happened with Justin that much more painful.

I was angry for breaking promises I'd made to myself with regards to Justin. A part of me had always known, maybe even hoped, that one day he'd come home. I knew if that day ever arrived, I had to have a plan, some rules firmly in place. _'Don't fuck Justin,'_ sat confidently at the top of that list, flashing at me in red, glaring letters. I am not a stupid man, and in the intervening years since I'd last seen him, I'd come to accept that the fastest way to lose myself was through his tight little ass. From there, my downward slide could only be swift and treacherous. 

I tilted my face up to the spray of hot water, wishing it could wash away more than last night's sweat and come. Clearly, I was no better at following my own rules than I was at following anyone else's.

Cole would never demand an explanation about what I was doing, fucking my former fiance. I had made it clear in the very beginning that being a part of my life meant taking me as I was, wandering dick and all, and Cole had accepted it without a fight. There'd never even been an undercurrent of resentment about it, as there'd often had with Justin, and when I began to lose interest in young twinks, when I stopped going out as much and stopped fucking around as much, Cole had never made an issue about that, either. 

But Cole had always known that Justin's memory still ghosted me. I had been forthcoming with him about Justin, although it had taken me months to trust him enough to begin opening up. In the end, I'd told him everything. The prom, the bashing, the fiddler, Stockwell and poverty, Kinnetik and the rebuilding of our wealth, California, our engagement, New York, Moscow, Paris. Cole knew all of it, and though he never passed judgment, I sensed that he might have sharp words for Justin, if they were ever to meet.

After sharing my bed for four years, Cole knew the score. He knew that I wasn't in love with him and that I probably never would be; there was only one time in my life that I had ever allowed such a thing and I didn't plan on it ever happening again. But he didn't push for more. He seemed content, even happy, with what we had, and I had to admit that, surprising as it was, I was likewise content.

And now Justin was back, and I still didn't have a fucking clue why.

I shook water out of my eyes, opening my mouth under the water, letting it fall over my tongue and down my chest. 

Justin was home, and despite all my promises to myself, I had managed to hold out all of an hour before I'd had him on his hands and knees begging to be fucked harder. 

It was going to be a long day.


	7. Enough To Go By

  
Brian

**~*~**   
****_"I don't know how to read what you give me._  
Say, "I'm tired, I'm tired of being lonely."  
Spell it for me."   
**~*~**   


I found him in the kitchen sharing pleasantries with Norta, the woman who kindly puts up with my foul morning moods, makes turkey bacon and egg whites taste like a real omelet, and keeps my coffee cup filled while I bitch my way through the newspaper.

His smile, when he saw me, lit his face, as his smiles always have, but there was reservation there, too, and I wondered about that. Did he regret the night before, wish it hadn't happened? That seemed unlikely, considering it was he who showed up at _my_ door, he who had shoved his tongue down my throat and then later, he who panted for more, harder, _deeper,_ Brian! But this was a different Justin than the young man I'd known, and his behavior baffled and unsettled me. 

I returned his greeting with a nod and glanced at Norta, indicating that she should start immediate infusions of caffeine. She nodded back in her usual no-nonsense way, and I slid into a chair at the table.

"I hope you don't mind that I co-opted Norta," Justin said with a blush, "I smelled coffee and followed my nose down. She makes a mean dark roast." They grinned at each other, already old friends, and she patted his shoulder in appreciation as she set a steaming mug in front of me. Taking her cue, always the consummate employee, she slipped out of the kitchen, leaving the coffee pot sitting on the table between Justin and I.

He smiled at me again, a placating look he'd always taken on with me when he wanted to diffuse my ire, but I didn't play along. I sipped my coffee quietly, waiting. Finally ducking his head, his smile faltering, he cradled his coffee cup gingerly, staring into it. 

"You probably think I'm nuts, don't you," he asked softly, "showing up on your doorstep in the middle of the night and then... well, you know."

"Jumping on me in an upstairs bedroom and begging me to fuck you?" I smirked at him. "I dunno, Justin, seems like old times to me."

He took a sip from his cup, another blush creeping up his collar, flushing his cheeks. I almost admired his ability to hang onto his boyish innocence and sense of shame, and I wondered as I watched him if I had ever had either of those qualities.

"Is it going to cause you problems?"

"Besides throwing out my back? No, why would it?"

"I just thought maybe if you had a boyfriend, or something...."

"Are you hungry?" I stood, cutting off his unsubtle inquiry, and strode to the Sub-Zero, yanking it open. It was none of his fucking business who I associated with- he'd given up the right to know years ago- but my heart had leapt into my throat, anyway, when he'd asked.

"I- um, no, I don't really- I'm not a breakfast person," he stammered.

I smirked to myself, pulling out a pitcher of orange juice to give my hands something to do. "Since when? If I recall, you love to eat, day or night."

"Yeah," he chuckled quietly behind me, "I still do, but these days it goes straight to my gut if I indulge. I don't metabolize like I used to."

"Who does?" I asked rhetorically. 

I pulled a small juice glass from the cabinet, my back to him, and filled it. 

"His name is Cole." I was boggled at myself. The words had just fallen out of my mouth as if of their own volition, and I gagged on them. Gripping my glass too tightly, I struggled for control. Was I bragging? Trying to hurt him? Gauging his level of interest? It was impossible to categorize my intentions, because I hadn't had any just ten seconds ago. 

Old habits slipped back into place, and I tried to mask my feelings with a shrug of my shoulders, glad he couldn't see my face. 

"Cole," he repeated softly, tasting the name.

I took a long swallow from my glass, burning time. I didn't want to look at him, unsure that my defenses were fully secure yet, and unwilling to let him see me this rattled. He'd always fucking been able to do that to me- when I was with him, even before I really knew him well at all, he could pull information out of me that I had never revealed to anyone, with just a glance. He could make me want him again and again, when I had never wanted anyone more than once or twice. He could make me jealous by smiling at a random trick, angry because he loved me, and frightened for him just by crossing the street against the light. I'd been bound to him so tightly that I'd even put aside years of childhood conditioning and asked him to marry me. Twice.

And then, after no communication for so long, he showed up and within the space of just a few hours, I'd betrayed my secret collection of his work, had him on his knees panting my name, felt guilty about it, and admitted to my relationship with another man. 

_You'd better be very fucking careful,_ I told myself, ruefully, _or you'll be begging him to move back home and help you plant next years crop of tomatoes in the back garden._

I downed the rest of my juice and slammed the glass onto the countertop, frustrated with myself.

"What are your plans for the day, Justin?" I didn't really care what his answer might be, I just had to keep moving forward, keep him off personal subjects, dodge my own confusion.

"Um, yeah," he laughed, "Well, I dunno- I mean, I really haven't planned _anything,_ you know? Except, you know... well, to see you." 

Fuck.

"Why am I so particularly honored?" The sarcasm dripped off my tongue and I found relief in it. I poured another glass of juice with trembling hands, put the pitcher away in the fridge and finally turned to look at him.

He was staring into his coffee cup, his brow furrowed, chewing his bottom lip, the way he used to do when he was unsure of himself or worried that I would become angry with him. It put me on even more firm footing, knowing that I wasn't the only one laboring through this happy little reunion.

"I missed you." His voice was soft, revealing little, and it pissed me off.

"After all this time, Sunshine? You could have called, or sent an email or even a fucking post card." I felt the smirk I knew I was wearing, heard the sneer in my voice, watched him recoil, and still couldn't seem to stop myself. "Why fly halfway around the world to see someone you haven't even bothered to speak to in years?" 

He shifted in his chair, dropped his eyes, and rolled his shoulders.

"It's complicated," he managed to get out.

"I'll bet. Complexity is our little Justy's middle name."

"Look," he said, fire returning to his voice, "I get that you're pissed at me and fuck knows you have layers of reasons to be, but you can't very well expect me to discuss anything with you when you're just trying to score points off me!"

He was right, and we both knew it. He also knew that in that one statement, his ability to fight back regained him some respect. But it wasn't enough. I'd played every game known to gay men. I'd become the master of most of them, perfecting them through years of studious observation and real-world practice, and I had grown tired of them. I was too old and too jaded and too fucking _something_ for whatever he was playing. I wanted, _deserved,_ answers, but looking at him then, it occurred to me just how much alike he and I were.

He'd learned the games too, and more importantly, he'd learned the work-around for most of them. He had me to thank for that, and I had only myself to blame- I was too good a teacher. He had learned from me how to manipulate, but he'd also learned how to avoid being manipulated by me. I wouldn't get any answers from him until he was ready to give them.

The little fucker. I was reluctantly proud of him.

I drained my glass, my eyes locked on his, and nodded, the only concession he'd get from me. He acknowledged the stand-off with a small huff and a softening of his features and somehow, I felt relief. Uncovering his secrets would no doubt clarify his presence, but I wasn't so sure that knowing would prove a safer state for me. 

"I'm going into town, today," I turned around, parking my glass in the sink. "Mikey would probably like to see you, I can drop you by the store if you want."

He laughed. "He still has it?

"Yeah. New location, new decor, same Mikey. He's there every day, barking at employees and complaining about end caps, or some shit. He works too hard."

"And Ben?" I could see the worry cross his face. He was afraid of the answer. 

"Still kicking," I assured him. "He gave up teaching when he started getting sick, but he looks good, still making that tofu shit, swears by it. Hunter is fine, though, healthy, showing no signs of AIDS. He's a broker on Wall Street, married, couple of rug rats they adopted from China or somewhere."

Justin laughed again. "That kid was always a constant surprise, wasn't he?"

I nodded.

"But a broker? I can see that, the little hustler."

We grinned at each other across the few feet separating us, and for a moment, an electrical charge arced through the air between us, making the hair on my forearms stand up. Yep, just like old times.

He broke the moment first, dropping his eyes again.

"I guess I should rent a car while I'm in town. And find a hotel, too."

"Stay here." The words were out with no graceful way to yank them back, and inside me, a surprised voice screamed warnings. I ignored it, as I always had with him, and slipped the fuck-all mask back in place. 

I brushed past him on my way out of the room, leaving him sputtering behind me.

"Brian, I can't! I wouldn't want to impose! It's not fair!" We both knew how badly he wanted to be here but to help him preserve some of his dignity, I let him protest a moment more before turning back to him.

"Don't worry about it. It's not like you're moving in or anything." Christ, when would I stop saying stupid shit and scaring the fuck out of myself? Where Justin was concerned- maybe never. I swallowed around the lump in my throat, rolled my eyes at him and shrugged casually.

"If you're sure..." 

I was already turning away from him again. I'd asked, but I wouldn't beg.

"I'd love to, thank you," he said to my back. "Brian!"

"Hmm?" 

"Cole?"

I stopped, my back still to him. "What about him?

"Won't he care?"

"Why should he?"

There was a long, quiet pause behind me, and finally I looked around at him.

"Are you in love with him?"

Well, the question was finally out, and I had to hand it to him. It took a lot of fucking nerve.

"Sunshine," I gave him my best smirk, "I don't believe in love. Remember?"

I didn't wait for an answer before I strode out of the room.


	8. Chapter 8

  
Author's notes: Sorry for the long wait. Enjoy. :)  


* * *

  
Justin

**~*~**   
****_"There will always be something there  
As long as one of us goes on living."_   
**~*~**   


When Brian dropped me off in front of Michael's new store, he barely looked in my direction. His jaw was set tensely and his fingers drummed the steering wheel in impatience. I thanked him for the ride and stepped out, turning my back on his squealing tires as he sped away.

The large, plate-glass windows looking into Michael's store showed a cacophony of color and movement inside. Rows of display racks and bins lined the floor and huge posters filled most of the available wall space. Posters dotted the windows, too, proclaiming new editions of Superman, The X-Men and other childhood heroes captured in vivid line drawings drenched with intense blues, reds and yellows.

My trained eye played over the art, memories flooding me, until I noticed the last window. There, yellowing with age but still standing in proud, if not dated, glory was a cardboard cut-out of Rage, The Gay Avenger. My throat tightened, and before I could stop it, laughter began to roll out of me, aching like a blow to my chest. I let it come, bent at the waist, my hands supporting my weight on my knees, marveling at the close connection between laughing and crying.

I had no idea how I would have explained myself if Michael had walked out onto the sidewalk at that moment, and as tears rolled down my cheeks, I realized how much I had missed him. How much I had missed all of them. Debbie. Michael. Emmett. Even Teddy.

And Brian. Always, Brian.

Sobering, finally, I wiped at my face, feeling as if a tightly wound rubber band inside me was loosening it's grip. I felt better, lighter, and I pushed my way through the double doors into Michael's domain with a smile, and a child-like sense of awe.

Comic books had never really been my thing growing up, not like they had Michael's, and by extension, Brian's, but even before my own foray into the world of superheroes, I could appreciate the simple beauty inherent in them. Here, Michael had built a shrine not only to this art form, but also to his own dreams. 

He had never grown entirely out of his childhood and the décor of his business reflected that in a charmingly playful way. I could see Emmett's flair for decorating everywhere, he had obviously helped Michael with it, but it was Michael's personality that shone from every display case, from every gleaming surface, even from the custom t-shirts worn by his young employees that said things like, 'Superheroes Do It On The Fly,' and 'The Tights Make The Man'. So typically Michael, but looking around, it was clear he was a success, and I was proud of him for it. 

I wandered towards a young man standing behind a glass case that ran the entire length of one wall. A sign overhead proclaimed that this is where the real connoisseur went to find vintage work by their favorite artists. By the size of his stock, I could see that Michael had used his extensive knowledge of comics to search out and acquire thousands of collector's items, from the very first .05 comic books, to action figures from the '50's, to trading cards. It was an impressive collection and must have cost a small ransom. Successful, indeed. 

Of course, prominently showcased in the middle of the display were original, signed copies of Rage comics and paraphernalia. A small sign next to them warned, "Display only. NOT for sale!" 

I was lingering over the glass-encased reminders of my early days with Brian, feeling sentimental and a little sad, when the sales boy interrupted my overly-maudlin thoughts.

"You're Justin Taylor." 

His voice was filled with awe, and I winced when I heard it. Most artists, Andy fucking Worhol notwithstanding, aren't cut out for celebrity. Art is such a personal endeavor; you don't do it for the masses, you do it for yourself, to appease the intimate voice that whispers constantly in your brain, your spirit, the cells of your body. Creating art is like brushing your teeth, or sneezing, or having an orgasm- it is essential and almost involuntary, and no one can do it for you. To create for an audience is embarrassing, and to be recognized for it, uncomfortable. Pride is involved when people love and appreciate your work, but few artists want up close and personal examples of that. The _art_ is what's important, not the artist.

I was painfully reminded of my own exposure lately, and knew with shame that I had sought it out. But this young man was not the cause of my humiliation, I had brought it on myself, so I looked up at him, flashed the non-threatening smile that I'd perfected for magazine covers and newspaper articles, and fluttered inside with shame when he nearly swooned.

"This is your work," he went on, his eyes wide, his hand brushing the glass case. "It's amazing. I've seen your stuff hanging in the Carnegie Museum. You're fucking famous, dude."

I blushed, hating the feeling of heat rising from my collar into my cheeks, and rushed to change the subject.

"I'm looking for Michael Novotny. Can you tell me where I might find him?"

"Oh shit, yeah," the kid sputtered, "Mikey's gonna be so jazzed you're here, lemme call him."

I smiled my thanks, not missing for a moment the explicit look of interest he gave me as he dialed and spoke quietly into the phone. It made sense to me that Mikey had hired gay kids as his employees. It was so like him.

As I waited, I wandered the aisles, boggled by the volume and variety of Mikey's hand-picked stock. I was aware the entire time of the young man's eyes on me, but I pretended not to notice. I wasn't here to get laid, my performance in Brian's bed last night notwithstanding, and I had no desire to encourage the kid. I wondered bitchily if Brian still stalked the young ones like he had me, or if domestic bliss had chilled his interest. I knew with certainty that I was actually the only kid he'd ever seduced, but for the moment, the threat I felt from the quiet presence of Cole in Brian's life stung just enough for me to justify to myself my uncharitable thoughts.

I suddenly thought about turning and walking away, that life here had obviously moved forward without me and that, like it or not, the direction I'd chosen for myself was all I had left. I had nearly made up my mind, and was wandering towards the front of the store, and escape, when Mikey's voice reached me from several aisles away.

"Well, well, the prodigal son returns."

I could detect no malice in his voice, no shadow of resentment, only warm and distantly-remembered affection. Michael and I had been brothers, once, or maybe brothers-in-law, and we had fought and loved like family. Turning to see him now, taking in his soft grin and the gray at his temples, I felt the relief of homecoming and reunion.

He strode towards me in that shy, awkward way of his, and scooped me up in his arms in a tight grip that squeezed the breath out of me. I returned the hug, remembering how good it felt to be a part of something that was bigger than me, part of a family that meant more, together, than what I was, alone. All at once, my heart ached with missing Debbie and Vic, and although Michael had to have felt my trembling and heard the quiet sob that escaped my lips before I could call it back, he just held on and didn't let go until I was steadier.

When he finally pulled away, his eyes were clear and honest, his smile genuine, and he playfully wiped at my tears, cuffing my chin as he stepped back.

"Still a little drama princess, I see," he chided gently, and I laughed with him, embarrassed by how emotional coming home was turning out to be for me.

"Some things never change." I wiped at my nose.

"Yeah," he agreed softly. "Well, come on back, we have a lot of catching up to do. If you have the time?"

"My whole afternoon is free," I assured him, "I'm all yours!"

I knew, as I followed him back to his private office, nodding my thanks to the sales boy, that questions of Brian would come soon enough. But for now, I was content to be there and spend time reminiscing with my old friend.

  
Brian

**~*~**   
****_"Through broken eyes and contact lenses, I watched you draw your future tenses.  
See kisses of flame blow out of your lips, your back telling me your apocalypse."_   
**~*~**   


I dove for the shot, landing hard on my shoulder and rolling into the fall, watching as the ball bounced away and out of my reach.

"That's 15," Cole laughed, panting, " _Twice._ "

I laid on my back, my heart thundering in my chest, sweat gluing me to the court beneath me.

"You're off your game today, babe." Cole loomed over me, offering his hand to help me up. I ignored it and scowled at him.

"Don't call me that," I reminded him absently. 

"Fine, I won't call you that." He knew his part as well as I did, and though we'd replayed those lines thousands of times since we'd met, he never seemed to tire of them. I grinned up at him and took his hand. He yanked me to my feet, and every muscle I had groaned in protest.

"Steam room?" I could tell that he was enjoying my discomfort.

"Yeah, I think so," I sighed. 

I was feeling my age more than I had in a long time, and I knew that one of the biggest reasons was Justin's return. Although he was knocking on the door of middle-age, too, he had always carried a youthfulness under his skin that reminded me of the years separating us. Weighing heavily on me, also, was not just my age, but the prospect of explaining Justin's reappearance to Cole, when I, myself, had no clear idea of why he'd come back.

Stashing our racquets in lockers and shedding our clothes, I followed Cole into the steam room, admiring the view from behind as I went. Cole's back had always been one of his finest features (that his ass was killer went without question), the strong planes and curves both powerful and sweepingly graceful at the same time. I wasn't lying to Justin- I wasn't in love with Cole. But I sure as fuck was in lust with him.

I turned my mind from thoughts of laying Cole out on the damp tile of the steam room and fucking him savagely. I knew enough about myself, now, to know when I was using sex as an escape, and today of all days, Cole deserved better from me. There were only a few people in the world I could honestly say I cared about, and whose feelings I took into consideration. Gus was at the top of the list. Cole ran a close second. I spent a moment briefly cursing Justin for that, for my inability to be in love again, but that was escapism, too. It wasn't his fault, it never had been; it was all mine.

Settling in, a large white towel wrapped around me, I closed my eyes, leaned back against the wall, and let the wet heat seep into my pores. I was vaguely aware of people around us, coming and going, soft murmurs of voices, but mostly, I just blocked it all out, drifting on a cushion of warmth.

I must have fallen asleep for a moment, because I awoke from a dream of wailing sirens to feel Cole's palm stroking up my thigh. Opening my eyes, I realized that we were alone, and the desire to have him right there, right at that moment, was strong on me, again. I gave in to it as he slid closer along the bench, settling his weight against my side. I leaned into him, enjoying the feeling of his lips as they found the most tender patches of flesh along my collarbone, my neck, finally reaching my mouth.

Unbidden, as Cole's talented tongue pushed between my lips, the memory of finding Justin in the rubble of Babylon, and my relief that he was still alive, gripped me. Startled and unsettled, I broke the kiss. Cole's eyes clouded with confusion, and questions. But like a flashback that wouldn't let go, I tasted smoke, and fear, and I could feel Justin's hands he clung to me, I could feel his trembling, and on the heels of that, the overwhelming desire I'd had that night to never let him go.

I stood abruptly, trying hard to shake off the dizzying sensation, and mumbled an apology to Cole. He leapt to his feet beside me, placing a calming hand on my shoulder, repeating my name softly. I could hear the worry in his voice, knew I was scaring him, but it was as if I was sensing him through a great distance. Around me, flames leapt up and people cried out as I dragged Justin from the rubble into the cold night air. 

I took a shuddering breath, freezing air filling my lungs, and then I was back in the moist heat with Cole, his hands gripping my shoulders. He peered into my eyes anxiously.

"Brian, what the fuck, are you ok?"

I nod vaguely, but I wasn't sure.

"Come on, you've probably just been in here too long, lets get you out." He began to gently propel me along and I went willingly, but inside it felt as if something was cracking open. "A shower will do you-"

"Justin is home," I blurted, and I could hear the flatness of my voice, the total lack of surprise, but once I'd started, I didn't dare stop. "He showed up last night. At the house."

Cole's hands dropped from my shoulders, and his eyes went very serious and dark, unreadable.

"I- he- it caught me off guard," I continued. The cruelty of confessing to him in such a public place didn't escape me, and I watched him shake his head, not understanding. Why should he have understood? I didn't even understand it. "I let him in, and then he needed a place to stay, so I put him in a spare room but he found the painting." The words picked up speed as they poured from my mouth, the rush to get them out making me sway on my feet. "He found all the paintings, all the ones I'd collected. In his studio. I guess he was snooping. Or coming to find me. I don't know. But I found him. I couldn't sleep after you and I talked." Cole blinked, and hurt bloomed across his features, his beautiful, dark features.

"He was there when we were on the phone?" His voice was low, disbelieving. "When we… as we were… he was in the next room?"

I shook my head.

"In the room on the other side of the house. The one with his painting in the bathroom." I needed to sit, but I couldn't afford myself even that comfort. I didn't deserve it. "He saw it. I knew he'd find it. And then…"

"What?" I hated the whispering, frightened quality of Cole's voice.

"I fucked him."

Slow understanding gradually settled into Cole's bones, drawing him up straight and tall, hardening his form, tightening his jaw, clenching his fists. I wished for one moment that he'd been allowed to expect more from me, because the atonement of a broken nose or a fat lip at his hands would have been both just and welcome. But he knew me. He knew that counting on me was fatal, and while he may have had dreams about us, wishes of lifetimes and commitments, he knew that I was too much of a prick to give him any of that. And I knew that he deserved all of it, and more. 

My self-loathing was just as habitual and protective now as it had ever been- as comforting as when I had first found Justin, coming out of Babylon, on a warm night nearly two decades ago. For the second time in my life, I had thoroughly cloaked myself in it, and another innocent person had been devastated by its impact.

I waited quietly for his response. 

He didn't hit me. He didn't yell, or turn his back and walk away. He didn't cry or beg or accuse or demand. He merely nodded, his eyes flashing.

"I need a shower. So do you." He was inscrutable. 

"Cole-"

"Okay?"

I watched his face, hoping he would give something, _anything_ , away, but self-preservation is a powerful motivator- he'd become as practiced at hiding from me as I'd always been hiding from everyone else. I nodded, resigned, and reached out to touch his arm. Smoothly, without another glance, he dodged me and moved into the shower room.


End file.
